


Paint

by anch_io



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, din and the reader are married, family fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:08:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28779546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anch_io/pseuds/anch_io
Summary: Your favorite green foundling decides to get artistic with your husband’s armor.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 98





	Paint

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been working on Sorry, I Don’t Speak Mando’a and needed a palette cleanser. I hope you enjoy this fluffy one-shot!

“Where did you run off to, baby?” you called out quietly, trying not to wake up your husband, “C’mon kid, where did you go?”

You padded past the kitchenette, past the cockpit, listening for any sign of your young foundling. Honestly, you have no idea how he managed to crawl out of his hammock and make it this far; he really was a little escape artist. (You wished you could blame that tendency on Din, but after the kid watched you break the three of you out of prison after a hunt near New Republic territory gone bad, you had to admit he probably picked up that unfortunate talent from you.)

A quiet coo coming from near the artillery cabinet caught your attention, almost too quiet to hear, but absolutely full of glee. Like he was happy about something, but didn’t want anyone else to know.

_Oh no._

Turning the corner, you caught sight of a long green ear. “There you are, Gro - _oh my god_.”

The kid turned to you with a wide smile, sitting on the floor with his father’s chestplate in his lap. That part wasn’t so bad. What was bad was the mess of multicolor paint all over the beskar, Grogu’s clothes, his hands, the floor, _everything_. 

“Oh, that’s not good,” you said, running a hand down your face. Kneeling down next to the kid, you carefully grabbed the piece of armor, mindful of the still-wet paint. “Grogu,” you said gently to him, holding up the beskar at his eye level, “You know you’re only allowed to paint on the paper your daddy and I give you. Why did you paint on this?”

He cooed sadly, looking at the paint covered floor. You sighed, then placed the piece on a nearby workbench. Stooping a little lower, you held out a hand to him. He readily grabbed one of your fingers, but kept his head down. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” you said, reaching out with your other hand to pick him up and cradle him, making your grey nightshirt a lot more colorful in the process. He burrowed his head into your neck, trying to apologize in his own way.

“Tell you what,” you said with a smile, leaning back to look him in the eye, “if you help me clean daddy’s beskar before he wakes up, and you promise to only paint on paper from now on, we’ll pretend it never happened. How does that sound?”

He chirped in agreement, and you affectionately scratched his ear. Standing up, you walked to the fresher first to get the paint off of your son’s hands and claws. The majority came off with water alone, a spritz of soap and lathering making quick work of the rest. _May the Maker bless whoever invented child’s easy-wash paint._ Still walking as quietly as possible, you brought Grogu to the small table in the kitchenette, placing him in his chair before moving to grab Din’s armor, his polishing solution, and a few cloth rags. The beskar he wore was insanely strong and could take a lot of damage, but you wanted to make sure all the paint was off and that you didn’t scratch the surface with something too abrasive.

_I doubt anything could scratch this, though,_ you thought as you wet the rags and sat down next to Grogu, placing them on the table within his reach, _there’s no trace of any damage anywhere on this. Oh well, better safe than sorry._

“Alright,” you said, upbeat, holding out a hand to your son, “can you hand me a rag, please?”

Eager to help, Grogu picked up a rag and moved as quickly as he could to place it in your hand. Chuckling, you rubbed his head and said, “Thank you very much, Grogu.”

Getting the paint off was easy albeit time-consuming, though the rags were thoroughly colored by the paint and didn’t seem to come off. _I guess it was easy-wash from skin and walls, not clothes_. Looking at your stained nightshirt and Grogu’s stained robe, you thought, _bummer_.

As you got to work on polishing the minutely dimmed beskar, Grogu began to doze off, his head drooping onto the table, cushioned by his hands. You let him sleep, content to finish up polishing and see what you could do about the paint on the floor and walls back by the mini-armory. 

* * *

Grogu was still fast asleep by the time you finished cleaning up. It was easy to lay him back in bed and tuck him in, kissing his forehead and then making your way back to your husband.

Din briefly woke up when you crawled back into bed behind him, grumbling quietly before you shushed him, running your hand down his back and side to lull him back to sleep. He had come back from a particularly long chase just the night before and you wanted him to sleep for as long as possible. Eventually, warmed under the shared blankets and calmed by his deep breathing, you fell asleep as well.

* * *

“Cyar’ika?” Din’s voice carried down the hallway.

“Yeah?” you called back, trying to focus on not burning breakfast. 

You heard him walk into the kitchenette. “Did you polish my chestplate last night?”

Turning to look at him, you saw he was dressed in his dark under-armor, holding up the gleaming piece of armor.

“Yeah,” you said breezily, turning back to the food, “I had a little trouble sleeping last night and decided to clean a bit.”

After a beat, he slyly said, “Did you decide to paint last night as well?”

You turned back to him to see him holding up your nightshirt and the robe Grogu was wearing the other day, both conspicuously covered in an array of brightly colored paint. You had left it in the hamper, but it seemed that nothing missed Din’s keen eye.

“In my defense,” you said carefully, taking the food off heat and turning to face him fully, trying not to crack a smile, “It was my turn to do laundry and the baby and I had a deal.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, amused, before placing the stuff on one of the chairs and making his way to you. He wrapped you in a hug, quickly kissing your cheek in greeting. “Thank you for taking care of it, and good morning.”

“No problem. Morning to you too, handsome,” you said back, smiling in his chest. Letting him go and turning back to the stove, you said, “Can you wake up Grogu and get some caf started? I’ll be done soon.”

He nodded and walked off, bringing a freshly dressed foundling and fixing together some caf for you both. Breakfast wasn’t a daily affair, not with Din’s bounty hunting, but you loved quiet mornings like this. Ones where you could just enjoy the company of your family and give them your love in person. 

After breakfast, as you and Din began cleaning up and washing dishes, he said, “So the kid decided to paint my chestplate last night?”

You huffed a quiet laugh and said, “He is _quite_ the artist. But I took care of it all last night, no worries. I told him if he promised to only paint on paper, then I wouldn’t rat him out to you.” You shared a sidelong look with him and said fondly, “He really looks up to you, Din. Probably just wanted you to take a piece of him wherever you went.”

He looked thoughtful at that, handing a clean dish to dry. You both continued to work in a comfortable silence. When he handed you the last dish, he said, “Do you remember what I said about painting beskar?”

Humming in thought, you dried and put the plate away. Leaning against the counter, you said, “Some of it. I know each color has a special meaning, but I’d be a liar if I said I remember all of them.”

He nodded, and then said, “You once asked me why I didn’t have it painted.”

“I did,” you affirmed, and then said, “I remember you said that silver or unpainted beskar meant ‘seeking redemption’; that you still felt that you had some redeeming to do after everything that happened with Grogu.”

“Yes,” he said simply. When you looked at him in silent question, he continued, “I don’t think I’ve redeemed myself fully from that.”

You nodded and said, “I understand, and I’m sorry if him painting it made you uncomfortable. But,” and at this you slid closer to him, hugging him tightly which he easily reciprocated, you said, “I hope you know that Grogu and I think you’ve more than redeemed yourself. You’re an amazing father, Din, and a wonderful husband. I couldn’t ask for a better partner to raise him with.”

He tightened his hold on you and nodded, and you hoped that in his silence he understood fully what he meant to his family.

* * *

You thought that had been the end of the paint fiasco, but a week later Din came up to you, holding his chestplate in one hand and Grogu in the other.

When Din spoke, he had that lighthearted excitement that always colored his voice when he spent time with his son. “Cyar’ika, would you like to paint with us?”

Seeing the piece of armor, you looked back up to him and asked, “You want to paint your armor?”

He tilted his head left and right in a ‘sort-of’ gesture, and said, “Something like that. I was thinking just this piece, and just a little bit. I’d like you and Grogu to help.”

“Are you sure?” you asked seriously, reaching to take the child from his arms. Din smiled at him as Grogu cooed, reaching up to grab his father’s nose. 

Laughing at the kid’s antics, Din said, “Positive.”

Smiling with him, you and your family walked back to the artillery cabinet where Din kept his military-grade paint. He grabbed two flat brushes and two paint tubes while you laid out a cloth to protect the floor. You sat down on the floor, placing the kid in your lap.

“Alright baby,” you said to Grogu, who was babbling to you and Din happily, “I know we said no painting on daddy’s beskar, but we’re going to do it today, just this once.” Din placed the chestplate in front of you, then popped open the first tube, spreading lilac paint on the brush.

“Show me your right hand?” Din asked, holding out his own. You complied, holding out your hand, palm up. He gently grabbed your wrist and started spreading paint down your palm and fingers.

“Kinky.”

“Shut up.”

You laughed, and he smiled as he continued to paint. “Purple represents luck,” he said, brow furrowed in concentration, “I’m lucky to have met you, and even luckier to have you as my partner. I chose lilac because that was the color you were wearing when we first met.”

He said it so easily, like he didn’t make your heart swell and chest ache at his words. “Wow,” you breathed, “I can’t believe you remember something like that.”

He smiled at you lovingly, and going back to the paint said, “I thought about what you said when you told me about the kid painting my armor earlier. How he wanted me to have a piece of him wherever I went.”

You hummed in acknowledgement, and he continued. “I was thinking about it a lot, and then I realized that that was something I wanted too.”

He put down the brush and held your wrist in both of his hands. You knew if he hadn’t just turned your hand purple he would’ve held that instead.

“I love you both,” he said, “and I hold you close to my heart.” 

At this, he slowly turned your hand over and pressed your handprint into the metal that protected the left side of his chest.

“I don’t know if I’ve redeemed myself completely,” he said honestly, lifting your hand up and leaving behind a vivid lilac handprint, “but I know that I want you both with me wherever I go.”

He smiled at you softly, and you felt your love for him burn hot in your chest. Instead of speaking your feelings out loud you leaned forward to kiss him, letting your paint-free hand reach up to cup his face, running your thumb slowly across his cheekbone.

Letting him go to take a breath, you pushed your forehead against his as he had done so many times to you throughout your relationship. “I love you, Din. I wish I had more powerful words to tell you that.”

He leaned in to peck your lips once more before sitting back where he was before. He reached over to grab the other paintbrush and the second tube of paint. When he started spreading it out, you saw it was a bright white.

“White,” he said as he started to paint the little one’s right hand, “represents purity. He’s our child, and even though he’s powerful in ways we don’t fully understand, he is pure of heart. He helps me make the right decision just by being with us.”

He turned over Grogu’s hand and pressed his right handprint in the space between your thumb and pointer finger, his hand so much smaller than yours and the white paint shining brightly even in the Crest’s artificial light.

You smiled at the paint now decorating the chestplate, at your colorful hands protecting Din’s heart. As Din set the chestplate out to dry and helped you wash the paint off of Grogu’s hands, you felt complete; whole and happy to be with your family.

After all, it was moments like these - these quiet, comfortable, love-filled moments - that lived on in your heart, even when Din was away. Knowing that he carried you and Grogu with him made the separation ache just a little less.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you have a great rest of your day!


End file.
